“My father…” She swallowed, and ordered herself not to lose courage now. Once articulated, the accusation could be dealt with; kept inside her, it would eat through her system like a worm through soil. “Gwen, I’ve no proof of what I’m about to say, but I am as sure of its truth as I am of being in this room. He was murdered, Gwen. My father was murdered that night in the storm!”
Gwen denied the words with a violent gesture that had her halfway across the room before Caitlin’s harsh command stopped her and brought her reluctantly back. Then she explained about the storm’s direction, the probable direction of the wind, and the height of the outer wall. The suspicion had taken root the day after she’d arrived back from Eton, but until now too much had interfered with the realization that her father had been murdered.
“But Cat,” Gwen protested weakly, “you’ve been ill! Your mind … you said yourself that your mind hasn’t been right for a long time. For a while you weren’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my thinking now, Gwen. There’s nothing wrong with it at all. Look… I came here on the last day of June. Before a month passed, and just before the first hearing was scheduled, I was taken so ill I could not function until it was over. And just before another hearing came a-calling, I was back in bed again. Gwen, for God’s sake, it’s well into October! You can smell the season changing; you can smell the snow on the mountaintops. The harvesting has begun, and before long the valley will close down for the winter. I guarantee you I will not suffer again until spring. Until the land is ready to bring us gold and silver again.”
“I…” Gwen covered her face with her hands, then dropped them and looked helplessly about the room. “I… but it’s monstrous!”
“Yes,” Caitlin said, with more restraint than she’d thought she could summon. “Yes, my dear, it’s quite monstrous.”
“But we must do something!”
“And so I think, too. But what? What can we do?”
It was a question she’d been thinking—dreaming—for months, tossing and turning in both her worst and her best dreams. But she still had no answers. There were scores of factors to consider, even—and she bridled each time the thought came to her unbidden—the possibility that she was entirely wrong, that she was permitting Oliver’s emotional indifference to her to affect her reason. What she required was what she’d found in Gwen—a devil’s advocate. Gwen was incapable of comprehending a nebulous scheme in which the stakes were so high they would endanger the life of her mistress; and in attempting to grapple with it, she laid at Caitlin’s feet any number of frivolous, cogent, and penetrating objections. One by one Caitlin dealt with them, either through outright recall of specific conversations, or with her instincts.
The debate ebbed, surged, at times became teary and at times sent them into gales of weary laughter until, at last, Caitlin’s physical debility proved greater than her determination.
It seemed like hours before sleep found her after Gwen had left, hours more for the turmoil to subside in her mind; it took virtually all her strength—and more courage than she thought she possessed—to endure Oliver’s daily visits, all the while studying his glances, his words, the tilt of his head for a clue to his real purpose; and by the end of the month she realized that unless something happened— unless she made something happen—her very sanity would retreat in the belief that it had all been a horrid dream.
She was walking outside again.
She had discovered early on that the residual effects of her illness proved immensely effective in getting for herself the privacy she craved. Oliver maintained a respectful, wary distance, seeing her only at meals and perhaps for a few minutes before she retired for the evening. He was solicitous and kind, but he diverted her queries about the running of the estate with a promise to keep her informed and to review with her all his actions “as soon as she was her old self again.” At the same time she saw James Flint only at brief intervals and from afar. She sensed some small friction between the appointed steward and her husband, but she could learn nothing about it and wondered if her suspicions were beginning to affect her judgment. Not once did Flint attempt to approach her; not once did he offer her his sympathies, such as they were.
It was just as well.
Because as each day passed and the end of the month grew nearer, her self-doubts increased and Flint’s mocking, cold presence might spark her into a rage.
Griffin Radnor did not come to her. Though she’d finally received word through Davy via the Stag’s Head that lights once again burned at Falconrest, she’d heard that no one had approached the hillside mansion and no one had been seen leaving its gates. The massive black dogs Griffin kept as guardians frightened most potential visitors away, and those who persisted were politely but firmly turned aside by the cadaverous Richard Jones, Griffin’s steward.
Three times since she had gathered her wits she had sent written messages to Griffin, but she had received no response whatsoever, though Davy had seen Jones slip the notes into his pocket. Worry had become feigned indifference, which in turn churned into righteous anger. The last time she had seen Griffin, he had pried from her an unspoken admission that her feelings toward him had not changed; but what of his feelings for her? If he was in love with her, if he cared a whit for her well-being, why hadn’t he tried to contact her? At one point she’d riled herself into such a state that she’d ordered the roan saddled, but long before she reached the village she realized that her recovery had not yet extended to journeying on horseback. She felt humiliated, and that feeling fueled her anger further. And finally she decided that if this was the way he treated women, then Morag Burton was welcome to him for all she cared. She would carry on alone, and the hell with such damned arrogance.
A pricking sense of betrayal darkened her mood and made her temper volatile.
She took to avoiding even Gwen. Often she would throw on a heavy woolen cloak of deep blue and storm out to the cliff wall where she paced above the shore and ranted at the wind, then suffered silently as the tears welled in her eyes. Straightening up, she reminded herself she was no longer a child.
And so the last day of the month finally arrived.
She had eaten the largest breakfast served her in several weeks, and she knew as she faced the rolling surf that she was finally healthy once more. The taste of the salty air, the feel of Seacliff’s stone beneath her hands… it all felt as it should, and it gave her a sense of power she’d forgotten she possessed. A sense of power and of justice.
In this strange, elated mood she was not dismayed when she saw Oliver striding hurriedly toward her, one hand holding his elegant military cape close to him, the other adjusting a plumed tricorne over his wig. He called to her, and she turned, pulling up her hood to keep the wind from her neck.
“My dear,” he said, puffing as if he’d just run from the village, “I’ve just had word from friends in London. It seems those damned fools in the colonies have…” He blustered meaninglessly on for several seconds, until she laid a placating hand on his chest, frowning because she’d never seen him quite so solemn and excited at the same time.
“What?” she asked. “There’ve been some troubles, so you’ve told me, but it was nothing to worry about, you said.”
“I was wrong,” he admitted, pulling himself up. “Those idiots have actually fired upon the king’s infantry again—near that Boston seaport place this time. Generals Howe and Burgoyne have been instructed to put the matter to rights immediately, but that means troops have to be raised. I have been asked to assist in preparing them, and to make ready in case the idiot French decide to commit suicide again.”
She must have blanched, because he took her arms and smiled to reassure her.
“You’re not to concern yourself, Caitlin, about such things. We will most certainly not be invaded, and I expect that it will all be over and done before next summer. Once the winter storms have cleared the seas, those fools will face the full migh
t of His Majesty’s battalions. They cannot win. And they will not win.”
“But you—”
“As I’ve already said, if you’d only listen, I’ve got to see that men are recruited for the army. To that end, I shall be gone for some little while, though I expect to return before year’s end. In my absence, James has been given my full consent and authority. You will see to it, please, that his wishes are as my own.”
He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and she had already offered it in some confusion before the import of his declaration reached home. Then she pushed herself away sharply. “You said what to Mr. Flint?”
“My dear,” Oliver said impatiently, “I have no intention of arguing with you. I have neither the time nor the inclination. You will do as you are told, and I will be kept informed of it. Make no mistake about that.”
A stiff and swift bow followed, a half-salute with gloved hand, and then he marched across the lawn toward the stables, bellowing for Bradford, for Davy, and not turning once to wave her a farewell.
She stared after him, taking a single step in pursuit before in helplessness she stopped and wrung her hands anxiously. It wasn’t possible things had progressed this far. Surely she hadn’t abdicated. As boldly as a harlot in Petticoat Lane, Oliver had simply taken control, using first her grief and then her illness as a cover for his actions. And now… now all her plans to make Seacliff hers once again were dashed at her feet, shattered like a crystal chalice and ground to dust beneath his heel. With James in control, and without Griffin for support, it was hopeless. Entirely, completely, desperately hopeless.
A footstep sounded behind her, but she did not turn.
“My lady,” Flint said, standing at her left shoulder and watching Oliver vanish around the comer of the south tower. “It appears your husband has a higher calling now.”
She would not deign to look at him. Her voice was as cold as the wind from the sea. “I know what is happening, Mr. Flint.”
“Mr. Flint?” he said, seemingly surprised. “And what happened to James, my lady?”
“James died months ago,” she told him. “In fact, I don’t believe he ever lived.”
“A pity. He seemed such a bonny fellow.”
“You bastard.”
“Be careful, my lady. You heard the man. I’m to take charge.”
He moved to stand beside her, but she started walking toward the house to keep him behind her. “There are those who have not yet given up on me, Mr. Flint. I don’t know what you have in mind, but you will not have me quite so easily as you once did, and you’ll not control me as you obviously do Oliver.”
He followed her in silence for a moment, then reached out suddenly and grabbed her shoulder. She squirmed under his grip, but he did not release her. Turning her roughly, he smiled as if they’d merely clasped hands.
“You speak of friends, my lady. I trust you don’t mean the master of Falconrest.”
With an effort she kept her expression severe. “I do.”
“But, my lady, I thought your little Welsh spies would have told you by now.” A finger to his chin, and he looked up at the mansion. “Ah, but I imagine it’s rather too soon even for such lovely gossip.”
“What are you talking about, Flint?” she demanded.
“Why, Griffin Radnor, my lady. He’s been declared an outlaw, a scalawag with a bounty on his head.”
She wanted to laugh, but her lips parted soundlessly.
Flint nodded. “Yes, you’ve heard me right, Caitlin Morgan. The man, as of dawn this morning, is an outlaw.”
“But what’s he done?” she cried.
“Done?” Flint laughed, a harsh barking sound. “Done? Why, my lady, he’s a killer. He’s wanted for murder.”
20
The soft touch of October’s chill had hardened, become brittle, then turned into the dead cold of winter. Caitlin found her limbs locked in place, her throat constricted, her eyes glazed against the afternoon’s dying light. Her first reaction was a vehement denial. Griffin might be many things, but a murderer he was not. Flint, however, had left her immediately after he’d offered the news that obviously delighted him, and she was unable to question him when her thunderstruck speech returned. Then, whirling around, she wondered bitterly what sort of trouble he’d gotten himself into this time: a brawl at the Stag’s Head, perhaps, or something similar during his prolonged stay in London? His Welsh arrogance was such that she would not put it past him to use his fists to defend his country’s honor, the result of which might very well be the accidental death of his opponent.
But murder? That implied a premeditated deed, and Radnor, for all his disdain for the trappings of wealth and the opinions of others, would never purposely take a life. Never.
She glanced around helplessly, fighting her panic. Then, as her concern for his safety galvanized her, she broke into a headlong run toward the stables, her cloak billowing and rippling behind her, her hood catching the wind and slipping from her head. As she raced over the grass she cried out for Davy, and sobbed her relief when he poked his head out the stable door. He gaped at the sight of her and reached inside for a large, sharp rake, holding it to his chest while he searched her wake for the culprit in pursuit.
“My horse!” she called as she neared him. “Saddle my horse instantly, Davy!”
He hesitated. He remembered clearly the last time she’d attempted riding before she was ready, and he wanted no responsibility for another near accident. Especially now that the master was gone and the demon Flint was left ruling in his place.
Caitlin would not be denied. She shoved past him when he didn’t move from her path, fairly pushing him inside and reaching for the bridle hanging on the wall. Sputtering complaints all the while, hurrying as fast as he could with his back half-bent, he brought the roan from its stall. Before the animal was fully out, Caitlin was palming the bit between its teeth, simultaneously snapping at Davy to fetch the saddle, or did she have to do everything herself?
Moments later she was in the stable-yard, sawing at the reins to keep her mount from rearing. “Get inside,” she instructed, “and tell Gwen to be in my rooms when I return. Then…” She cut herself short and frowned. Behind her in the carriage house, there was an empty space where the first coach should have been. “Why aren’t you with Sir Oliver?” she demanded.
Davy, who had already braced himself to sprint to the tower, almost stumbled in an effort to turn around in the same move. “He says he don’t need me, mistress. He had one of Mr. Flint’s lads take the bench for him.”
There was no time for speculation. She merely jerked her head to send him on his way, then kicked at the roan’s flank. The horse reared in surprise, then bolted across the grass, nearly throwing Caitlin from its back. Leaning forward to minimize the effects of the wind, she squinted as she guided the animal onto the lane and down over the rise. There had been a flicker of movement at the front doors, but she didn’t look back. Whether it was Bradford or Flint watching made no difference to her. Neither one would come after her.
Wall and trees swam into a single colorless blur as she sped toward the village; dead leaves already littering the roadway swirled under the horse’s hooves in small dervishes. The ice-tinged air snapped red into her cheeks, penetrated her ruffled blouse and made her shiver. Her hair spun over her back, its color a perfect complement to the autumn shades that swept over the valley in breathtaking abandon. A whiff of burning leaves and twigs, the sharp aroma of cider fermenting in someone’s yard-still, the cutting scent of the sea as it cooled down toward winter—all of fall’s delights were lost on her as she galloped past the church and ignored a startled wave from Reverend Lynne.
Around the commons she raced until she reached the village proper.
Martin Randall, standing in front of his tin and goldsmith’s shop, reached up to doff his cap out of respect for her but he wasn’t fast enough. She was there and gone, and he wondered if she was trying to catch up with her husband’s coach, which had
also barreled through the village as if the devil himself were prodding the horses’ rumps. He shrugged. ’Twas no concern of his these days, and maybe it would be better if she did catch him, and not return. Though he was sorry for her being sickly these past weeks, he felt nothing more than he would have if his own dog had fallen ill. After all, at the last hearing the major had refused his petition to wed Quinn Broary, the reason being that the army would be through soon to pick up new recruits, and the major in his kindness did not wish Mistress Broary to wed now and find herself a widow in a year’s time. And in Martin’s view—as in the views of many others— what the major thought, so did the mistress. Which was a pitying shame. She had been such a fine young woman before the marriage had changed her.
Similar thoughts passed sadly through the mind of Susan Shamac, the seamstress, when Caitlin flew past her cottage. She’d been working on a terribly fancy new uniform for that horrid Mr. Flint when she’d heard the frantic hoofbeats and thought someone was being chased by a ghost through the village. Peering through her window, however, and seeing who it was, she only snorted, turned and took out her sudden ill temper on the girls sewing in the dim light of the parlor, cursing Caitlin Morgan for making her remember how it once was.
Ellis Lynne, wringing his hands and frowning, watched as Caitlin reached the last of the houses and began the rough climb toward the gap in the barrier hills. And when she turned off onto the lane to Falconrest, his frown deepened. What did she know? he asked himself worriedly, and did Mr. Flint know where she was going? He vacillated, tom between the urge to follow—at a discreet distance, of course—and the temptation to hurry up to Seacliff with the news of Caitlin’s flight. But by the time the dust had settled on the road it was too late. And just as well. He’d already done enough for the estate’s steward over the past few months, and he thought he could afford to let this item pass. Besides, it wouldn’t do for him to be seen at the ancient castle so soon after the previous night. People might talk. People might put their heads together, do some figuring on their fingers, and come up with four. And that, beyond doubt, would never do at all.
Seacliff Page 20